She's the Boss Ch. 02

Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Saturday. Sunday.

The structure of a week. Of any week. The most daunting obstacle in the world, between a life-changing event and the end of life. Last week I was myself, as I knew myself, as resolute about my sexuality, my pride, my character, as I could be. I'd spent my teenage years as a loser, blossomed late, grown happy with myself.

And then on Friday night, Saturday morning, Irina took that all away.

I wake on Monday morning, stare at myself in the mirror, and don't really recognise the man in the reflection. His eyes move too much, his mouth has no smile. I look at him and wonder: how could he enjoy being her bitch? That he couldn't resist, that she was too strong, that it happened -- I can stomach all of that.

But to enjoy the feeling of being taken, penetrated? To appreciate the sensation of her penis -- her penis -- in his mouth, and to actually moan when her semen spilled across his tongue? To lay back and hope for another spray of cum, jizz, spooge fresh from her giant balls?

The man is the reflection, the reflection the man. I see those things, hate them, and hate myself. I've never enjoyed sex half as much as I did on Friday night, Saturday morning. I've never been the girl, the bottom, the receiver, but I loved it.

I don't want to be him, but the reflection is the man.

Maddie gives me a look when we pass in the corridor. An "I told you so" kind of face. Does mine give it away, or am I just assuming? It feels like the world knows what I've done. People I don't know by their first names eye me as I go to my desk in the secluded part of the office. Like they're watching a dead man, off to the gallows. Like this is to be my last day, or one of the last. They've seen it before, they know it.

Work, work, work, work, work. At lunch, whispers. They all regard me, even when they don't. The brain works like that, it plays up anxieties, it rewrites conversations not fully heard. Work, work, work, work, work. People look at me like they never did, seeing what they never saw before. They see the dried semen around my mouth, on my lips, in my hair, across my face. They see Irina's handiwork and see this new Theo, this broken Theo, this lesser Theo. A self that lacks his former confidence, who says little.

Work, work, work, work, work.

Irina Blackwell makes the rounds, divine as always. Her long legs are clad in thin stockings that run beneath a knee-length skirt, ending in large feet that tuck into elegant black heels. Her dark skin contrasts her emerald eyes. That braid of hers droops down behind her back, swaying faintly as she struts.

She doesn't so much as look my way all throughout her comments and remarks and little bursts of small-talk. And then warm strong gentle hands are on my shoulders and sweet wet breath brushes my ear and she says, 'Oh, honey, I've never seen you so sad.' Irina squeezes me. 'You can always come to my office. I'll put a smile on your face.'

I shiver as she leaves, my cock pressing against the front of my dark trousers. This is it, isn't it? Decades of this, of these remarks, of these little private suggestions. It's not enough to humiliate me. She needs me broken, or gone. This is my life.

If I cave and flee, she wins. If I stay, at the very least I'm holding my own. Don't answer her teasing, don't get angry, don't retaliate, just ignore it. Ignore, ignore, ignore. And it makes, for the most part, the first week bearable.

For the most part.

*

'Is it true?' Maddie says in a private moment, on our weekly Friday outing. 'Did you sleep with Irina?'

It catches me off-guard somehow, because despite knowing that they know, I wondered if it was all in my head. It's not.

'That's a bit personal, isn't it?'

But it's a stupid, leading phrase. Maddie smirks, makes a funny shape with her mouth, and sips her vodka lemonade.

'I'm surprised you're still here.'

A sentence sharper than any knife.

'What?'

'I mean, didn't you always act straight?'

'I am straight.'

She rolls her eyes. 'Yeah, and Irina doesn't have a dick,' Maddie says, sips again. 'Are you seeing each other now?'

'What? No.'

'Damn. I owe Chrissy £20, thanks.' Maddie sighs. 'I'll save you some hassle with the others: did you swallow? Did she cum inside you? Did you ask for it? I mean, you're still here, so I guess you enjoyed yourself--'

'Were you placing bets?'

A guiltiness flashes across her pretty features. 'Just answer the questions.'

'You're being a cunt, man.'

'Oh, fuck off. Imagine being such a loser with women that you let a freak with a cock fuck you! That's you, Theo. Don't you have any pride? You won't own what you did, and you expect us to accept that?' She rolls her eyes dramatically, and gulps down her drink. 'You're so full of shit. Just don't quit before the end of the month, I have £100 riding on that.'

She goes to leave, and I grab her arm. 'Maddie, she raped me.'

Sympathy, fleeting and little, lights her eyes. 'Why haven't you gone to the police?'

'She's got lawyers. Good ones. I'd lose.'

'You're actually kind of sick, Theo.'

'What?'

She wriggles from my loose grip and stares daggers. 'Not only won't you own what you did because you're regretting it after the fact, but you'd use rape as a fucking weapon. Fuck you! My sister got raped by her boss -- really raped -- and she reported it, and nobody fucking believed her because she was a woman.' Maddie shakes her head, shuddering. 'You're a man. The only reason you wouldn't be believed is because you're lying. Go fuck yourself!'

And like that, she leaves me. When the others broach conversation or when I try to speak to them it's like I'm a zoo animal, a mere specimen. It's those questions, seeking confirmation of bets they made. Like I'm not a friend, less than a colleague. And when I refuse to speak or when I steer the chat to ordinary topics, they get annoyed and leave, until before long -- early in the evening -- I'm left alone, appearing outside how I feel within.

I can't really make sense of it. It's clear, whatever else, that I've no comfortable future here. Maddie says things and looks to me, and faces darken. Slowly, they're going to hate me. Maybe if I'd started with the rape thing, maybe then, but her point remains: why haven't I gone to the police?

Simply because Irina told me not to, warned me not to?

Of course she would do that: she's the rapist.

*

I go into the dark garden, drink in hand for courage, and whip out my phone.

'I wouldn't,' Irina says. She's there, tall and terrible, her form-hugging black dress at once beautiful and dreadful.

'You don't know what I'm doing.'

'Calling the police.' She steps past me into the light, illuminating her gorgeously sultry features. The tall dominant woman -- futanari -- drops to the bench beside me, sitting beneath the overhead light. She smirks, long fingers clasped around a Martini. 'I overheard you and Mads. By all means go ahead, but I'll take it as slander.'

'But you did. You raped me.'

She shrugs, her shoulders bared, muscular and beautiful. 'Yes, and like I said, nobody cares. I did what I had to do. You needed a seeing to. I opened your eyes.'

'You ruined my life,' I say. 'I don't know who I am. My colleagues whisper about me, Maddie hates me, and in all this, you say smarmy bullshit like that.'

'Quit, then. Run away, like all the other little cowards.' She rolls her eyes, sips her Martini. 'God, you're such a pathetic bunch, you losers who ride my cock and love it, but can't accept what future it paints. Your masculinity is so fragile, so tied up in whose sperm ends up in whose mouth.'

'You forced yourself on me!'

'Because you'd never have done it willingly,' Irina says, and sighs. 'Gay men find me repulsive, and so do straight men. Straight men at least get further. Gay men would never dare.' She takes a fairly hefty gulp. 'You want to be the man, the one who takes ownership, who gives his cock, who is in control. But with me, honey, you'll never be that, and it scares you. With me, your arse is a pussy, and your mouth is a cocksleeve. You just don't have the balls to admit that you enjoyed the change of pace, same as every other bloody man, because the lot of you are cowards.'

I find myself transfixed in the gloom by her exotic darkness and her long lashes, her high cheekbones and plump lips, her endless womanly curves, those lengthy legs and thick thighs, that fusion all-around of power and femininity. One of the most beautiful women in the world, but for one feature awry. One of the loneliest, as well, I can only imagine.

And somehow, for a half-heartbeat, I sympathise with my rapist.

'I like this job,' I say, leaning against the wall. 'You pay well, and there's variety, and the four-day weeks are nice.'

Irina Blackwell smirks. 'You shouldn't have mentioned rape.'

'I shouldn't have.' I sigh. 'But you shouldn't have raped me.'

At length, she says, 'What will you do?'

'If I stay, I've lost my colleagues, and I can't imagine you'll stop teasing me. If I go, I'm unlikely to find so well-paying a job that has the same benefits.'

My boss sits herself down on the bench seat of one of the wooden tables, her back against the table, one leg crossed upon the other. She sips her Martini, plays with the skewered olives. When she looks to me, her eyes are alive with devilishness.

'There's a third option,' Irina says.

'What?'

'A promotion. A senior editor. On the top floor, with your own office. Seventy-kay a year.'

My eyes widen. 'Really?'

She nods. 'Really. But there is one string.'

Of course there is. 'Which is?'

'I want you to suck my cock,' my boss says. 'For real, this time. On your knees, between my legs. I want you to look up at me, to look into my eyes, to do it lovingly and slowly, and I want to cum in your mouth. I want you to swallow.'

Blushing, I shudder. Her face, her tone, are serious. 'Irina.'

'You've done it before. Do it again.'

'You forced me.'

'Yes, well, this one is optional.'

Is it really? What a choice! To do something I don't want to repeat, or to restructure my life in such a way as to attempt -- attempt at best -- to recreate the current success I've found here. As hot as Irina is, as easy she is on the senses, I tremble to glance at her crotch.

Something about the thought is, despite being familiar, yet-foreign.

'What if I let you fuck me again?'

She clicks her teeth playfully, shakes her head. 'No. Where's the fun in that? I do all the work, and you get the reward?' Another shake of the head. Her smile is beautiful, deadly. 'I want you to worship me, Theo. Like I'm your goddess. Like all that matters is making me happy.'

My body betrays me. Cheeks flush with heat, a shiver goes down me. I clench and unclench my fists, not in anger, but to contain this surge of...lust? Something about her words, about the offer, prompts a war between that part of me that is so eager to maintain its clear grasp of the world -- straight, into women, and not women with dicks -- and that part of me that is clearly bestial and depraved.

'You promise? I do this and you won't turn it back on me?'

Irina extends her left hand. 'Shake on it? You can even record my promise on your phone, if you like?' She smiles lustily. 'You're wasted down there with the ordinary lot anyway. I see this as a win-win. Senior editor but a decade early. What do you say?'

I dispense with taking her hand. 'Fine. I trust you. I'll come to your office tomorrow.'

She parts her legs, drawing her dress wide. Its sides are open at her legs, the central strip of dark cloth falling between her thighs, revealing in the tricksy light a prominent shape at her crotch.

'Here's fine,' Irina says, smirking. I stare, because what else can I do? 'Well?'

'We're in public!'

She shrugs. 'So?'

'Someone will see?'

'I don't care,' Irina says. 'Do you want that promotion or not?'

I do. I do want it. I don't want to suck cock to get it, but I do want the promotion, might go so far as to say I need it. And Irina, in truth, is at least beautiful, clean, nice-smelling. We're slightly round the corner from the door, out of the way for the moment, with nobody to bother us. I hurriedly move around her, eyeing the entrance to the garden.

She watches me, smirking lustily as I drop down between her legs, kneeling upon slightly wet patio slabs. She's evil, sure, but she's hot as hell. Giant breasts, fat thighs, long legs, heavy hips. I glance again at the entrance, then move aside the frontal drape of her dress, pushing it over a leg. Beneath it are a lacy black pair of panties running in a V up to the arches of her hips, barely containing her monstrously large male genitals.

'You're so slutty,' Irina says. 'Sucking my cock for a promotion.'

I ignore her, tugging at her panties. They roll down, come away easily with some shifting on her part, releasing the beast between her legs. A dark cock, semi-flaccid, flops out over the edge of the bench. Two grapefruit-sized balls droop behind it, bouncing in the confines of their smooth sack, hanging erotically low. She stinks muskily, potent, salty, hints of hidden pussy wafting up to join with the masculine femininity of her cock and balls.

'Jesus,' I say under breath, a deer caught in headlights as I behold her.

Irina chuckles. 'Put your hands on me. Treat me gently, honey.'

I glance up at her and tremble. This is inevitable. This is unavoidable. Looking back at those oil-black pubes, that thick flaccid dick, I mentally prepare myself. It'll be okay. It wasn't the worst thing. At least she's Irina. At least she's hot. At least I'll get a promotion out of this.

Taking her in hand, I'm struck by the warmth of her body, the heat of her junk. Irina exhales softly, and sips her Martini. Her huge dark cock, eight inches flaccid, is fat and thick even in its current softness. Jesus Christ, I'm touching her penis again, and this time in the grips of uncomfortable lucidity.

It's difficult not to stare. Part of me wants to call it impressive, honestly. I get both of my hands -- not small, but she's only going to get bigger -- around the midsection of her schlong, and begin to slowly stroke.

'It's not a handjob, honey,' Irina says, a playful sting to her voice. 'Hoping to get me most of the way without using that handsome mouth?'

'I just, uh--'

Irina chuckles warmly. 'Bury your face in mummy's fat nuts,' she says. 'I want you to stink of me, my good slutty boy.'

The suggestion widens my eyes, makes my head spin. At once perverse and awful, at once bothersome in how readily it arouses me. My cock twitches. My heart skips a beat.

It's not worth commenting. Not worth inevitably being mocked, or made more a fool of. I glance sheepishly at the door and then resign myself to this fate, ducking my head down beneath the weighty shaft I lift upright with both hands.

Irina's sagging scrotum of hairless dark flesh hangs down low beneath her member, drooping over the lip of the bench. Her right testicle is slightly lower than the other, and each ball is a massively fat shape that bulges in the sack. Massive nuts, like balled fists much larger than my own. Much larger than I expected balls could even be.

'Bury my face in them?' I say, pausing.

'Treat them as you would my breasts.' She sips her Martini, makes a pleased sound of quenched relief. 'Motorboat them. Suckle them. Kiss them. Play with them. Tell my body that it needs to get ready to load that cute tummy of yours with my strong genes, sweetie.'

The language is powerful. It has this heady effect on me, playing at some primal part of me that tends towards submission instead of dominance. Some part of me that, before Friday, I didn't know existed.

There's no use delaying. I shut my eyes and dive in, the androgynous musk of her loins filling my nostrils. Body-heat swamps my face as the tip of my nose meets her smooth scrotum, and her two hefty testicles enclose about my face under the purview of gravity and the slight shifting of her body.

As much as I try, as much I wish it were not so, this isn't terrible. It's not even bad. It's not even neutral. It's...something about her smell, the warmth of this beautiful dominant woman's body -- balls or otherwise -- provokes something carnal in me. Out of necessity, I let that part of me that is so eager to sink into depravity take control.

The skin tastes faintly salty, but that's all. Irina makes a sound almost like a purr above me, and pats the back of my head. 'Good boy. Make them all wet. Don't be shy now.'

My mouth makes crude, guilty noises as I apply my lips and tongue to her scrotum. Smacking sounds, wet sounds, as I trace out the shape of her heavy hangers with my tentative tongue. Such big shapes in so loose and smooth a sack, each a firm and plump vaguely egg-shaped thing. My mouth is all this slight saltiness of her sweat, and my nose is packed with this potent musk of her dual sexes.

'Nurse on them,' Irina says, tussling my hair. 'Suckle on them, sweetie.'

I part my lips and try my best, but there's no way I'm getting one in my mouth. I settle for -- and Irina's grunt of pleasure suggests approval -- getting my lips as best around the left one as I can, sucking on the folds of loose skin, tongue going back and forth to massage the firm shape within it.

She's growing firm, large, in my hands above. The powerful pulse of her heart, channelling strength into that most intimidating of organs, reminds me of where this is going. Of what must occur here, on my knees, for the sake of a half-decent future.

I hear myself whimper faintly, chancing a glance up. The shape beyond her swaying bollocks is immense, easily as long as my forearm, as thick as my wrist. Irina somehow, again, inspires that strange confusion of wielding such easily perfected femininity and the terrifying suggestion that in terms of masculinity, she has me severely outclassed.

To reduce myself to just a cock, just balls, is disheartening, and yet Irina's are the superior specimens. My boss, tall and dominant and gorgeous, manages somehow to soothe that part of me that rebels. As if...as if it's right, for me to be doing this.

'I don't feel much in the way of your mouth, baby,' she says. 'Distracted, are we?'

In all my staring, I've come to a halt. 'Sorry, I just--'

'Don't apologise with words, Theo. Kiss my balls. It's them you're abandoning, after all.'

In any sane world I'd reject all of this, turn my back on it, but I actually start kissing them, left then right, then back again. Kiss. Smooch. Kiss. Smooch. Delicate, which I justify as logical -- balls are fragile, in a sense -- but it feels like dishonesty. Feels like the gentleness, the soft appreciation, is more for her ego than to prevent injury.

'Well--mhm--you clearly mean it, at least.' Irina chuckles. She shivers. 'Put your hands down there, honey. Scoop them up and shower them with love. Don't worry about my cock--your head will be a perfectly suitable rest for the time being.'

I don't hesitate at this point. I slide my hands down her shaft and slowly the heavy thing droops, culminating in a soft thump atop my head where it comes to linger. Irina chuckles and I do my best not to tremble at how weirdly good it feels, the mockery in that sound, playful though it surely is. My hands are around her balls a moment later, each a fat weight upon either of my palms.

Something comes over me. I sandwich my face in the cleft between her nuts, sniffing her potent musk, shifting my face a little bit from side to side as if motorboating them. Irina teases the back of my head with slow patterns of her fingers, and produces a pleasant feminine groan.

'Good boy. Such a good, obedient boy.'

Her heavy testes bounce and wobble against my face, pleasantly warm, the smell thick and interesting. My cock is straining now, my interest strangely piqued. Holding her balls loosely and swivelling my face left to right leaves her thick weighty penis to bounce gently atop my head, while Irina plays with my hair.